January 2013

A few days later, Dan and I drove to the barn together. It was a Saturday, and crowded, according to the complaining I overheard.

“There were, like, six people in the ring, all taking lessons,” the woman in the cross ties next to us griped as I groomed Woody’s coat and cleaned his hooves.

“Is that a lot?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

Clearly, I was an idiot. I shrugged. Talk to me about where to sit in a locker room, or the humidity that caused the straps on my hockey pads to stretch a few millimeters, or a skate sharpening machine that was slightly off tilt, or hockey tape that was too old, and I’d have an opinion. But with the horses, everything was new.    A few minutes later I overheard a couple of girls talking in the crossties on the other side of us. “Annie can two point post with just her knees,” one said. There was respect in her voice.

“So what? That’s easy,” the other said. There was haughty disdain her voice. “Did she make it seem hard? Because it isn’t. I can do that.” Clearly a pecking order existed at the barn; I felt the competitive energy, though I knew not what it was about. My ignorance was refreshing and I smiled as their jostling continued.

“Did you hear Cynthia got a new horse?” the reverent one asked.

“Doesn’t matter if you can’t ride it,” said the other.

In the arena, Dan rode Woody first while I hung my elbows over the rail and watched. After awhile, two women entered the arena and took up their place on the rail ten feet to my right.

“I don’t know why anyone would want to ride Western,” I heard one say. Woody was one of the few reiners in the barn, and therefore, one of the few horses ridden in a Western saddle. I glanced in their direction. Both women wore black, head to shiny-dressage-boot-toes black. One had black hair pulled back in a tightly coiffed ponytail. The other had blond hair, recently curled. Their waif-like frames screamed for burgers and fries.

“I don’t like Western either, it just looks sloppy and untidy, not like English riding,” the blond agreed.

Dressage, though, had always made me uncomfortable. From my place of ignorance, the overly polished horse, overly polished saddle, and overly polished humans felt, to me, like a strange affront to reckless authenticity and freedom. It was the same feeling I had about people who smile without showing their teeth, as if they’re trying to restrain the very essence and joy of being alive. Or those itinerary-bound travelers who venture to the far side of the world but stay insulated in nice hotels, rigid schedules and restricted diets, never sharing a genuine interaction with anyone other than their travel companions. My admittedly ignorant and jaded perception of dressage made me want to drink tequila, stand on the bar, and do something stupid.

“I mean, you just can’t feel a horse in a Western saddle, what’s the point?” the coiffed one concluded with a shrug of her black pony-tail.

I had to laugh. The pretension in her voice was genuine, but she was talking to the wrong audience. I didn’t have a dog in the fight of their social warfare. I just loved Woody.

“Your turn,” Dallas said. I walked into the arena and Dan handed me Woody’s reins. “Just walk him around a bit to warm yourself up. Make sure his mind is with you the whole time. When you feel comfortable, you can ask him to trot.” I stepped up into the saddle. Woody glanced back at me with his right eye.

“Yep, let’s go. Walk on.” I squeezed my calves and Woody began walking.

“When you’re ready, bring him to a trot.” I tapped my calves. Woody sped up, but was still walking. “Try again.” I tapped my calves again and added a “cluck”. Woody popped into a trot feeling springy and light beneath me.

“That was good. Control his speed, and when you’re ready, bring him back to a walk.” Over and over I brought Woody to a trot and back again with the occasional one-reign stop thrown in.

“That looks really good, do you want to try loping?”

I figured it was like a trot, just a bit faster.

“Sure,” I said.

“So you’ll want to start in a walk, let him know something is going to happen by picking up a bit of a feel and squeezing with your calves, then bump bumpand kiss.”

I started Woody in a walk.

“You can do it, just tap his sides.”

Woody sped up, but stayed in a walk.

“You can do this, keep your upper body still, bring him up to a trot, and while he’s in the trot, tap tap tap his sides,” Dallas said

“Okay, come on good boy.” I tapped Woody’s sides until we were trotting.

“That’s it, just tap again, and cluck at him a bit,” Dallas said.

I leaned forward and kissed. Suddenly Woody took off, pure muscle in motion under me. I squealed, literally, dropped the reins and gripped the saddle horn. “Shit!” I said to no on in particular. “Shit shit!”

Woody was all speed, I had no control, and I desperately did not want to fall off. Still, I started giggling as Woody rounded the far end of the arena and started back toward Dan and Dallas. Giggling turned to a slight terror as Woody got faster, then faster, and faster still. Apparently, he’d been trained to pick up speed before a sliding stop. I didn’t know that. To me, an invisible foot had stepped on the accelerator and the force threw my weight back in the saddle. I gripped the saddle horn tighter as the reins flopped useless against Woody’s neck. Another surge of adrenaline escaped in a fit of laughter.

“Pick up the reins.” I could suddenly hear Dallas laughing in my earphones. “Pick up the reins.”

I realized she’d been saying the same thing for a while, with increasing intensity; I just hadn’t been registering.

“Grab the reins! Grab the reins!”

I let go of the horn with one hand and reached for the reins.

“Now sit back, say whoa.”

With the remaining hand on the saddle horn, I pushed myself backwards. Woody’s hind end immediately tucked beneath us and we slid to a stop. I was ecstatic, jittery and energized both by the experience of loping full speed on a quarter horse and by the fact I had survived. I folded myself over Woody’s neck and hugged him. I was laughing so hard I barely heard Dallas say, “Okay, you’re done.”

The two dressage ladies dressed in black looked horrified by my outburst. Perhaps for my encore, I really would drink tequila and dance on the bar, naked. Their constraint made me feel free, and there was something else. For the first time in a long time, I felt pure unencumbered joy.